The path to Aelinthar twisted through dead woods and stone-marked trails. Eira led silently, her hand never straying far from the hilt of her blade. Kael, though exhausted, kept pace. His arm tingled, the runes pulsing gently with an inner light.
That night, under a canopy of dying stars, Kael dreamed again.
He stood atop a battlefield, corpses of men and beasts strewn across the land. A woman cloaked in flame approached, her eyes void of mercy. "Ash shall burn ash," she whispered, before thrusting her blade toward him.
He woke in a cold sweat, the sword beside him humming with faint energy.
"You heard her too?" Eira asked.
Kael blinked. "You saw it?"
"No," she said, sharpening her dagger, "but when you toss in your sleep and mutter in tongues, it's hard to ignore."
They continued toward the ruins. Trees thinned. The air grew colder.
That evening, the ground shook. From beneath the earth, a hand—skeletal and burning with green flame—reached toward the stars.